A Lovely Evening For A Walk

The next day I sat on the sun deck, and he approached. “I left you a voicemail and a text.” (I sure can pick ‘em) “My phone’s off.” “I texted you to ask if the deck was crowded.” “Well, now you know.” Thank you, Reebok club, for being too cheap to provide enough posh chairs for all your cranky, Type - A members, and rollerblading, sun worshipping, two timing fools. “Do you want to go for another walk Thursday evening?” (insert laugh track here, and Gordon Ramsay saying, “You donkey, are you mad?!”) “I plan to schedule a root canal.” Which would be far more enjoyable. “I’ll call you.” I heard it, and I still don’t believe it. When I got home, I listened to the voice mail “Since you’re walking through the park, I thought you’d like to stop by the bandshell and watch me rollerblade.” What am I, thirteen? On Thursday he sent an email, saying he was going to see Harry Potter and wondering if I’d changed my mind about the walk. I didn’t reply. It turned out to be a lovely evening for a walk; continuous, violent thunderstorms.